The archetypes, those universal symbols of human experience, are not fixed stars in the firmament. They are currents in a river, shifting with the flow of time, circumstance, and choice. You may begin as the Hero, setting forth on your journey to slay the dragon, but in the act of victory—or failure—you may find yourself transformed into the very thing you sought to defeat. The Hero, the Villain, the Mentor, and even the Fool are not roles assigned at birth but masks we wear, exchange, and abandon as our stories unfold.

Consider the Hero’s Journey, the backbone of myth and narrative across cultures. It begins with the Call to Adventure, the threshold where the ordinary self steps into the unknown. But what happens after the return? Is the hero who brings fire to mankind still the hero when the flames burn too brightly? Ask Prometheus—or better yet, ask Frankenstein’s monster, the rejected child of hubris and ambition. Here, the archetype bends: the savior becomes the oppressor, the creator becomes the destroyer.

This fluidity is not a flaw in the archetype but its greatest truth. Archetypes are not static ideals; they are dynamic energies, shaped by the choices of the individual and the collective. The mentor who leads the hero to glory may one day become the shadowy figure who clings to power, fearing irrelevance. The trickster who mocks the world’s order may, with a single act of courage, become the savior it never expected. Even the villain—the so-called “big bad”—may, through redemption or necessity, turn their sword against a greater darkness.

TV Tropes captures this truth well: characters are not confined to their roles. Heroes fall, villains redeem, sidekicks rise. The “Heel–Face Turn” and the “Face–Heel Turn” are not just plot twists; they are reflections of our own capacity to change. We are not bound by our archetypes because we are the ones who shape them.

Take Darth Vader. The Hero of the Clone Wars becomes the scourge of the galaxy, only to redeem himself as a father in his final moments. He did not abandon the archetype; he expanded it. Or Walter White, who begins as the provider—a wounded everyman—only to succumb to his shadow and become the very dragon his family fears.

So, some of the problems of the world today can be traced back to our refusal to acknowledge this fluidity of archetypes. It is a refusal born of pride, ignorance, and fear—a desire to cling to a single role in the story, even when the story itself has moved on. We are so determined to see ourselves as the “good guys” that we fail to notice the moment we cross the line, when our actions no longer serve the greater good but instead perpetuate harm.

History is littered with examples of heroes who became tyrants. Nations rise as liberators, only to become oppressors. Ideologies that began with noble intent calcify into dogma, and their champions refuse to see how the world has changed around them. This is the shadow side of the Hero’s Journey: the inability to relinquish the sword once the dragon is slain.

Take the post-war world as an example. The victors of World War II saw themselves as the saviors of freedom and democracy—and rightfully so. But in their quest to preserve that freedom, many of those same powers became the very forces of domination they had once fought against. Proxy wars, coups, and “policing actions” were justified under the guise of heroism, even as they devastated lives and undermined the very values they claimed to uphold.

In the early days of technology, Silicon Valley cast itself as the archetype of The Magnificent Bastard. These were the clever rebels who hacked the system, disrupted the status quo, and made audacious plays to democratize power. Steve Jobs in a garage, Bill Gates dropping out of Harvard—these figures embodied the trope of the underdog genius who bends the rules to make the world better. The internet itself, a digital Wild West, promised freedom: open access, decentralized networks, and an escape from the control of corporate and governmental gatekeepers.

But as the story progressed, the archetype shifted. The disruptors became The Crime Lords. Companies that once positioned themselves as the Robin Hoods of innovation now rule like shadowy mafia bosses. Facebook, once a scrappy startup connecting friends, became a data-mining behemoth wielding influence over global elections. Amazon, which began as a plucky online bookstore, now crushes small businesses under the weight of its monopoly. These tech titans no longer operate as the audacious rogues taking on the system—they are the system, enforcing their control with ruthless precision.

The arc from The Magnificent Bastard to The Crime Lord was driven by a refusal to adapt. Instead of accepting the responsibility that comes with power, tech leaders clung to the hero narrative, even as their actions began to resemble the very institutions they once opposed. In doing so, they revealed the shadow side of their archetype: when cleverness gives way to corruption, and disruption becomes domination.

In politics, the archetype of The Wise Mentor is a familiar one: the seasoned figure who guides the Hero and helps the next generation rise. In the mid-20th century, many of today’s gerontocratic leaders earned their place in this role. Figures like Joe Biden, Mitch McConnell, and Nancy Pelosi were once the rising stars of their political parties, fighting for civil rights, economic reforms, or guiding nations through crises. They stood as beacons of wisdom and experience, trusted to light the way forward.

But as time went on, the Wise Mentors failed to recognize when their time had passed. Instead of stepping aside to allow new voices to shape the story, they slid into the role of The Obstructive Bureaucrat. This trope embodies those who cling to power not out of necessity but out of fear of change. Rather than nurturing the next generation, they block progress, defending outdated systems and prioritizing personal legacies over collective growth.

The problem lies in their inability to let go of the hero narrative from their youth. They see themselves as the eternal Saviors, even as their policies and approaches grow stale and their decisions increasingly harm the systems they once sought to protect. What they fail to understand is that The Wise Mentor is not meant to dominate the story but to guide the Hero and then step aside. Refusing to evolve turns them into antagonists, figures of frustration rather than inspiration.

This narrative stagnation traps entire systems in a cycle of decay, as younger generations are denied their opportunity to rise as The New Heroes. The archetypal journey is meant to flow—Mentors guide, Heroes ascend, and the story moves forward. When any one figure refuses to relinquish their role, the tale turns tragic, and the very archetypes that once promised hope and progress become the barriers to both.

On a personal level, the same principle applies. The individual who insists on remaining the Hero at all costs risks becoming the Villain in their relationships, their communities, or even their own story. The refusal to adapt to new circumstances—to accept that one’s role has changed—is a denial of the very essence of the archetype. The Hero must return from the journey, and with that return comes transformation. To remain in the mode of the slayer, the conqueror, or the revolutionary long after the battle is over is to invite ruin, both for oneself and for others.

This rigidity is not just a problem of power; it is also a problem of identity. We crave simplicity, a narrative that tells us, “I am the good guy, and they are the bad guys.” But the truth is far messier. In any conflict, both sides see themselves as heroes in their own stories. And when we refuse to see our own capacity for villainy, we blind ourselves to the harm we might be causing.

Conversely, some of the greatest redemption stories come from those who recognize when their role has changed. The Villain who acknowledges their cruelty and seeks to atone, the Hero who realizes they have overstepped and steps back into humility—these are the moments when the archetypes serve us, rather than the other way around.

So how do we escape this trap? How do we live in harmony with the fluidity of archetypes rather than being consumed by them? First, we must embrace self-awareness. The hero who cannot see their shadow is doomed to be consumed by it. Second, we must learn the art of letting go. Roles are not permanent. You may be the Hero today, but tomorrow you may need to step aside for someone else. The Mentor knows when to pass the torch; the Trickster knows when the joke has run its course.

CARRIER BAG THEORY

Ursula K. Le Guin’s Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction reimagines storytelling as a collaborative, relational process rather than a singular, heroic arc. She shifts the focus from the classic “hero with a weapon” narrative—the spear, sword, or tool of domination—to the humble, inclusive “carrier bag.” The carrier bag gathers, holds, and sustains life, representing a collective and interdependent way of thinking about stories. Archetypes, in this framework, are no longer static roles like “hero” or “villain”; they are fluid, constantly shifting depending on context and the relationships within the system.

This fluidity becomes especially clear when we consider what is carried. A carrier bag might hold seeds of nourishment, fostering growth and life. But it could just as easily carry the seeds of destruction—tools, ideas, or materials that can unravel the very systems they were meant to sustain. Take, for example, the materials for an atomic bomb. In one context, they might symbolize ingenuity and progress; in another, they bring about catastrophic destruction. The carrier itself is neutral—it is not inherently good or evil. It is the relationship between what is carried, how it is used, and the choices made by those wielding it that shape its impact.

This mirrors the fluid nature of archetypes. The same figure who embodies the Hero archetype—gathering and using tools for the collective good—can transform into the Villain when what they carry becomes harmful or destructive. Robert Oppenheimer, for instance, can be seen as a Promethean hero, bringing the “fire” of nuclear knowledge to humanity, but his role quickly shifted to that of a destroyer as the devastating potential of that knowledge became clear.

Even on a biological level, the metaphor deepens. Consider a carrier bacteria: it might transport nutrients essential for life, or it might carry a deadly pathogen. The act of carrying itself is fluid and neutral—what matters is the interaction between the carrier, the carried, and the environment. Similarly, in archetypal terms, the Hero does not stand apart from the story—they are shaped by what they carry, how they use it, and the consequences that follow.

Le Guin’s theory reminds us that stories—and archetypes—are not fixed battles for dominance but evolving processes of relationship and responsibility. Whether carrying seeds for sustenance or the tools of destruction, the archetype’s role is defined not by static labels but by the choices made and the story unfolding around them.

The archetypes are tools, not chains. To cling to one, or to deny its shifting nature, is to deny the fluid, ever-changing reality of life itself. We are all, at once, the Hero, the Villain, and everything in between. The journey is not to remain fixed in one role, but to learn when to take up the mask—and when to set it down.

This, then, is the lesson: archetypes are not prisons. They are mirrors, reflecting back not only who we are but who we might become. The Hero’s Journey is cyclical because life is cyclical. Who we are at the threshold of the adventure is not who we will be when we return. And if we remain rigid—if we refuse to grow, to adapt—we risk stagnation. Even in myth, the Hero who cannot change becomes the Tyrant, and the Tyrant is but the next step in the cycle.

So, do not fear the fluidity of the archetypes. Embrace it. The masks we wear are not lies; they are possibilities. To be the Hero is to risk becoming the Villain, but it is also to hold the potential to be the Mentor, the Healer, or even the Trickster who burns the world down so it may be built anew.

We are all, at once, the Hero and the Shadow. The journey is not about avoiding the darkness—it is about knowing when to step into the light.